Death By Chocolate
by chinquix
Summary: In which England receives a shock regarding one of his most beloved industries. And the day had started off so well, too.
1. Chapter 1

**This is my first ever fanfic (excluding a short drabble I wrote about Russia), so I'm very sorry for the altogether lameness of it ^^' This is, obviously, my first story here, so please tell me if I've done anything wrong! So anyway, enjoy;**

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Arthur Kirkland was frozen in place. His pale hand gripped the tv remote, knuckles turning white at the sheer force with which he clutched the sleek, black instrument. His slight frame was shaking in some cross between fury and shock, leaning forward from the small sofa. Before him, on the modest screen of the television, protestors marched angrily across the green of a small village, their indignant cries blocked out by the cool emotionless drone of a BBC newsreader. He'd long since stopped listening to what they had to say, locked as he was in his own turbulent thoughts, the chaos of the demonstration reflecting in his mind.

The day had started off so well, too. Alright, so the morning was kicked off with a series of curses and muttered profanities as he'd accidentally knocked a half-full mug of tea from his bedside table, resulting in a mass of shattered china and cold brown substance staining his carpet. But that wasn't particularly unusual; most of his days seemed to begin with one minor or disaster or another. He just assumed it was due to his generally poor luck. So, after mopping the offending mess from his floor, Arthur had settled back into a normal daily routine. Switching on the kettle. Retrieving the morning paper. Swearing at the toaster when it failed to perform its duty adequately. And, when his breakfast had been completed, leaving a message for the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom.

It is probably best, at this moment, to explain something about Arthur Kirkland. Slightly below average in height, with looks that could be considered handsome what with his startling green eyes and attractively ruffled blonde hair (shame about the eyebrows, and that seemingly perpetual frown), this small yet slightly intimidating young man was in fact, to put it quite simply, the physical embodiment of Great Britain. He'd lived through the Battle of Hastings, the Great Plague, the Civil War. He'd fought and lost the War of Independance with America, yet had continued on to, many years later, pull through both World Wars. So, yes, it's safe to say that Arthur Kirkland, better known as England, was no ordinary Brit. Indeed, you could say he was _the_ Brit.

Introductions aside, we'll return to where we left off. England was reclining leisurely in his living room, having successfully informed his boss that he had received the information about their meeting, and would arrive at Number 10 in several hours. Now, he had some time to spare. Nursing his thrid cup of tea of the morning, the nation drew his legs up onto the chair (not in an ungentlemanly manner mind you, not at all) and sighed contentedly. The sky outside was surprisingly clear of cloud for a London morning, although the deceivingly spring-like sunshine concealed a bitter winter wind. He gazed through the large front window, surverying his citizens with approval as they went about their business. His mind began to wander, and he found himself pondering the wherabouts of his fairy friends, who had yet to make their appearance. After several moments of contemplation, he shook his head; they were probably involved in their own important activities, or something along those lines. And so it was, feeling boredom beginning to set in, that Arthur Kirkland reached for the remote resting on the arm of the settee, and flicked on the television in front of him. After 'surfing' the various channels for a while, turning his nose up at several programs, including one titled 'Dancing on Wheels' in which disabled members of the population performed various forms of dance ("Oh honestly now, is this _really _what my people find entertaining?!"), he eventually settled on the morning edition of BBC Today. The day's news flashed past on screen, some of it interesting him, others not so much. One news story, claiming that Calais was keen on becoming part of England in preperation for the 2012 olympics, entertained him immensely. He made a mental note to gloat about it to France later. However, it wasn't until several minutes later that one particular headline caught his attention. He frowned at first, unsure if he had heard correctly, and pushed up the volume. The image on screen shifted from the studio to a scene outside one of his villages, where workers were gathered with placards. And now the United Kingdom was certain he had heard correctly.

Now, we're back at the beggining, to the enraged nation shaking in his seat. His mind had finally calmed down, yet he was still seething, a state not helped by the continuing mentions on the television of 'Cadburys' and 'sold out'. It was then that Arthur's rage finally peeked, all because of a single phrase uttered by the reporter. "...these Cadbury's workers are currently protesting after the alledged takeover by Kraft, an **American** food firm....". Just one word. That single word, beggining with 'A', was enough to send England into a silent fit of rage. With trembling hands, he pulled himself roughly out of the chair, shoved on his boots, grabbed a thick coat and flung open the door. His green eyes flashed dangerously, and his mouth contorted with wrath as he hissed in a low and unbelievably dangerous tone;

"America. Must. Die."

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***wrings hands* S-so, what did you think...? If it isn't obvious, I based it on the takeover of Cadburys, which to be honest, I'm not too fussed about. As long as they don't change the taste XD **

**(If you don't know, Cadburys is a British confectionary company that specialises in chocolate. I personally love their Dairy Milk :D And yes, I'm British.) **

**Once again, I'd love to hear what you think, so please review! I really want to improve my writing skills. I'm planning on another Chapter, because this one was so fun to write, but I might get it done sooner if I get a good response...? *hint hint***


	2. Chapter 2

**Thankyou so much to everyone that reviewed! I'm sorry I haven't replied to all of them yet ^^' This is about the third attempt at this chapter, it just didn't seem to be working, and I'm still not happy with it...I hope it's not too bad. It's a little shorter than the first one. But anyway, on with Chapter 2!**

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America sat at the mahogony desk, fingers drumming an irregular rhythm into the wood as he nibbled on the hamburger held in his right hand. Well, it was more like _devouring _than nibbling, but damn, that was just how he ate his burgers! Shuffling impatiently in his seat, the blonde gazed longingly out of the large window at the enticing landscape beyond; grass swaying in the winter breeze as if beckoning him, a wide blue sky without a cloud in sight...it was all he could do to stop himself from flinging open that same window and fleeing from the stuffy office to the freedom of the outside world. But he knew it was impossible. Alfred Jones sighed melodramatically, a small childish pout forming on his lips. He'd promised his Boss he'd wait. They were meeting up with England and that Prime Minister of his, to discuss climate change or something like that. And what was more, the President had made him swear not to announce his newest Heroic plan! How unfair was that?! Huffing in annoyance, he began to beat the counter with increasing vigour, the sound becoming less of a pulse and more of an incessant pounding. His Boss had left to track down the elusive older nation and his leader _hours_ ago, so what the _heck_ was taking him so long? (It had, in fact, been barely two minutes. But as we know, America isn't exactly one of those known for his patience).

Since early that morning, the bespectacled nation had felt a growing sense of dread within him. He wasn't sure what to make of it, and at first had put it down to jetlag, before reminding himself that on no account did a Hero suffer from such an affliction. Deciding it was probably hunger, he made sure to stock up on fast food to make him through the meeting. But now, even after stuffing himself with nearly twice as many hamburgers as usual, the uncomfortable sensation would not leave him alone. Frowning slightly, and absolutely not beginning to feel a little nervous, America glanced (not warily) at the door. Surely someone would arrive soon? It wasn't like Iggy to be late...at that thought, the feeling of impending doom increased tenfold. Alfred tried to laugh it off, but instead it turned into a shiver of apprehension. He unconciously shifted his weight into a more defensive postition, facing the door, and awaited his fate.

A clock on the mantelpiece ticked distractingly, the sound clear and precise now with the absence of the young nation's drumming on the tabletop, and already several minutes had passed without any cataclysmic event. Slowly, America unclenched his fists (funny, he didn't remember clutching the chair like that) and straightened himself. Realising he'd been holding his breath, he let it out with a relieved sigh and a small, uneasy chuckle. He _really _hoped no one had seen that. Not that he'd been afraid, or anything. An abrupt crash jerked his attention back to the door, his body leaping several feet into the air at the same time; he heard a high scream, and realised with mild shame that it was his own. Heart pounding somehwere in the vicinity of his throat, Alfred clutched his chest and looked on with wild blue eyes. It took some time for his mind to kick back into action with (reasonably) logical thought. Blinking rapidly, America peered past the dust cloud that surrouded the now mutilated wooden door, trying to catch a glimpse of his assailant. Eventually the dirt settled, and for the second time that day he let out a reassured yet shaky breath. He recognised the short figure in the doorway without a doubt.

"I-Iggy!" he gasped, laughing timidly. "So, er, you made it then? Y-you scared me a little, what with the smashing down the door, and everything...forgot to take your meds or something, old man?" he joked lamely. England merely glared. There was something in his eyes that seemed different to America, somehow; almost like fury, bordering on insanity. When the older nation made no retaliation to Alfred's insult, he felt fear bubble up inside him once more.

"...Iggy?"

And then, with a harsh war cry, the emerald-eyed nation lunged at him.

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**Aaah, as I said, it's nowhere near as good as Chapter 1...for some reason, I find Alfred harder to write than Iggy. **

**The meeting was originally going to take place at Number 10 Downing Street, until I realised that there wouldn't be any grass nearby for Alfred to look at...so now, it's taking place in a magical fairytale office that, as far as I know, doesn't exist anywhere in London :D Actually, ignore all that, I just looked it up and there's a sort of garden surrounding Number 10...(damn, I know my country so well XD)  
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**There'll be one more chapter after this, and it should be the longest (if I don't mess it up), so please stay tuned for the last part! I'll try my best to make it better than this one! **

**Review, please, and tell me if there's any problems with the language I used for America...I'm not really experienced with writing as an American ^^' **


	3. Chapter 3

**First of all, I'm very sorry this took so long. I've never been any good at writing endings T_T Secondly, thanks again for all the great reviews! And thirdly, just a little warning that there's a _tiny_ bit of bad language, but I didn't think it was enough to change the rating to a 'T'...**

**Hope you enjoy the final part!  
**

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For most people, it's common sense that an office is decidedly not the best place in which to launch a full-on attack. Especially an office belonging to the most powerful man in Britain. The lack of space, combined with the off-chance that a tea-bearing temp worker could arrive at any time, are useful factors to consider. At this moment in time, however, rational thought wasn't one of England's priorities. Blinded by rage at the loss of his beloved chocolate-making industry, the island nation had let his emotions take control, allowing his conscience a short holiday. It was a startled cry that brought him temporarily back to reality. And so it was that Arthur found himself facing a rather bemused and terrified looking American, hands enclosed around said man's neck, breath coming in low, heavy pants. Blinking in confusion, Arthur wasn't too concerned at the fact that he appeared to be throttling the younger nation; no, that happened far too often to be of any surprise. What did bother him, however, was that he had no recollection whatsoever of how he'd ended up in his Boss's private bureau.

An angry, muffled sound of complaint distracted his attention, prompting England to finally release his victim. "What the _hell_ was that all about, you crazy old bastard?! I ain't even _done_ anything this time! I-" Spluttering and gasping, Alfred's infuriated rant came out far less intimidating than he'd intended, the rest lost behind a fit of coughing. Aswell as being enraged at the Brit's sudden, seemingly unprovoked attack, America was also mortified that the scrawny little nation had even been able to overpower him. He wondered, perfectly logically, if the older man had fallen into a vat of toxic waste at some point, thus granting him super-human...no, super-_nation_ strength. With this revelation, he eyed Arthur suspiciously. "Say...you didn't happen to come across any, err...hazardous substances recently, huh Iggy?" Alfred beamed inwardly at the long words he'd used; hell yeah, he was good. 'Iggy', who'd been stood in silence, his face set in a bemused expression, jerked his head up at the bizarre query.

"..Alfred, what?!" he hissed in exasperation. He waved his hand dismissively when the American tried to explain, massaging his forehead as he groaned in exasperation. "On second thoughts, I don't think I want to know. And anyway, that's besides the point. What, exactly..." he paused, looking around the room, "...am I doing here?"

America blinked once. "You...don't remember?" An affirmative nod was the reply. Alfred gave a short laugh, then joked, "Guess you finally went senile, then." Arthur gave him one of his infamous death-glares, urging him to explain. The younger country shrugged, then stated, "I dunno, you just sorta burst in here, all silent and stuff, then you attacked me like some freaky wild animal. You kept screaming something about 'Cadbury', whatever the hell that is."

England's noticably broad eyebrow twitched, and not just because of the awful butchering of his language. "Cadbury..." he began, voice sharp and dangerous, "is the name of _my_ chocolate company, which _your_ good-for-nothing food company has decided to _take over_." With every word, his tone had dropped lower in both pitch and volume, finishing in little more than a hiss. America frowned.

"So...this is about candy?"

Seeing red, Arthur's sanity heaved a relieved farewell, and fled to the darkest recesses of his mind. Once again, the younger of the two found himself pinned against the wall by a screaming briton, his harsh cries ocassionaly forming coherent words. Something along the lines of "You bloody git" and "It's _chocolate_ not _candy_!" were repeated several times. As America wasn't as caught off guard as he had been the first time, he decided that it would probably be a good idea to retaliate. Hauling the elder off of him with a difficulty that he was unaccustomed to, Alfred's sense of victory was short lived, as he somehow tripped on a discarded pencil, sending the two of them toppling to the ground.

Enter the aforementioned temp worker.

Silence reigned over the three of them for several minutes. The young woman who had burst in, carrying a tray of tea and coffee, had been met with the sight of two fully grown men sprawled on the floor. The shorter of the two was looking considerably flustered, whilst the taller, bespectacled man appeared just plain confused. Blushing, she half-placed half-threw the tray onto the desk in front of her, muttering a stuttered apology, then fled the room, all in a space of a few seconds. America turned his head on one side, baffled, giving him the look of a small, lost puppy. Feeling his face heat up considerably (because the room was so stuffy, dammit!), England hastily shoved his former colony away, struggling to his feet. He coughed once, avoiding the other's gaze.

"Well then, I suppose we should just, er...forget about this little...i-incident" he stuttered, cursing himself secretly. America raised an eyebrow (was he doing that just to spite him?!), but merely shrugged.

A knock on the door a moment later announced the arrival of the Prime Minister and the President, who'd run into each other on their way to the office and had become involved in a conversation regarding the state of the Third World. After the usual greetings were over and done with, the meeting itself was underway, and most of it passed without incident. There was the minor distraction when a pigeon hit the window, causing Alfred to leap out of his seat and claim that aliens were attacking by manipulating avian brainwaves, but apart from that the whole affair was surprisingly civil.

* * *

Several hours later, and Arthur was escorting the President and the other nation out of the building, along with several security guards. He exchanged a brief and polite conversation with Alfred's boss, before nodding in farewell as he climbed into his heavily armoured car. America slapped his shoulder and grinned at him before stepping into the vehicle himself, to which England replied with a huff and a roll of his chertreuse eyes. Soon enough, the car was pulling away along with its escort. Arthur turned to go, when he noticed a bright pink something out of the corner of his eye. Looking down, he saw a vibrant Post-it note stuck to his shoulder, obviously a parting gift from the imbecile. Peeling it from the expensive material of his suit, he scanned it briefly. His eyes widened, and then he smiled, shaking his head with a small chuckle.

"Sry bout d choclat, iggy!"

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***Facepalm* Ugh, like I said, I can't write endings. I'm really not too happy with this, it just went weird towards the end.*sigh*  
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**Don't ask me why Alfred writes like that on a Post-it note, it was just a random thought I had....and also, I wasn't sure about the use of 'ain't'. Any Americans, would you use it in that context...? Sorry if you wouldn't.**

**Ah, I'm quite said I finished this...it was very fun to write, even if it did go wrong. Thanks for all your reviews, and I hope you enjoyed it!  
**


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